


The window to the soul

by pointerbrother



Category: One Direction
Genre: Anything But(t) Challenge, Established Relationship, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Spanking, iHeart 2017, non-au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-16 05:45:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14158077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pointerbrother/pseuds/pointerbrother
Summary: If they were the sort of couple who could do things half-way, who could accept that two months without each other meant two months of having other people throw themselves at them relentlessly while being utterly depraved of physical intimacy, and that maybe, just maybe, one might have a little slip-up with some meaningless model, perhaps it’d be easier. But then, if they were that sort of couple, that would mean being able to accept the mere thought of someone else touching Louis without wanting to rip his own guts out and Harry knows himself, at this point, so— so, no. No, they’re not that sort of couple; they’re the sort that scream at each other all of last night because Harry spent two seconds chatting to the nice, polite girl at the beer-stand. They’re the sort that are too fucking stubborn not to have gotten over it by the morning, or by evening, or even by now, that Harry’s just come off stage and needs that warm little body to hug him back down to earth.-harry comes off stage at iheart 2017 and really needs a bit of physical affection





	The window to the soul

**Author's Note:**

> My prompt was thigh fucking / intercrural sex, backstage at iHeart 2017.

He’s sweating when he comes off stage, buzzing to the fingertips with giddy energy. The euphoria that always comes with the screams of the crowd and the lights and the anxiety that’s long since now dissolved itself, courses through his limbs, has him bouncing with every step. He gets slap after slap over the back, pulled in every which direction, reminded over and over and over again how absolutely amazingly well he did. He doesn’t have a second to come down off his high before another well-known face pulls him in and lifts him up again.

The backstage area is crowded with people, from stressed-out stage-workers to starstuck teens let in on a golden ticket to actual friends to famous faces looking at him as though he’s something much more important than he’s ever felt himself to be. He’ll never get used to that; getting looked at by someone he used to look up to from the comfort of his preteen bedroom like _he’s_ the one who’s something out of this world. He’ll never come to understand it and neither will they, probably.

There are only about four people in the world who really, truly understand, but even with them, it’s not something he talks about anymore. It’s not something they roll off of stage, jumping and hugging and laughing about, manic with how absolutely terrifyingly exhilarating it all is. These days it’s enough just curling up to one of them, the best one, sweet warm little body, at the end of a long day or week or month, knowing they don’t even have to say anything at all. It’s enough knowing he’ll always have a pair of sweet blue eyes somewhere in the world, even when it’s been months at times, because life and work and fame is hard, it’s fucking _hard_ even though he’d never say it, that feel like home. That still is home.

Of course, it’s not without friction. If they were the sort of couple who could do things half-way, who could accept that two months without each other meant two months of having other people throw themselves at them relentlessly while being utterly depraved of physical intimacy, and that maybe, just maybe, one might have a little slip-up with some meaningless model, perhaps it’d be easier. But then, if they _were_ that sort of couple, that would mean being able to accept the mere thought of someone else touching Louis without wanting to rip his own guts out and Harry knows himself, at this point, so— so, no. No, they’re _not_ that sort of couple; they’re the sort that scream at each other all of last night because Harry spent _two seconds_ chatting to the nice, polite girl at the beer-stand. They’re the sort that are too fucking stubborn not to have gotten over it by the morning, or by evening, or even by now, that Harry’s just come off stage and needs that warm little body to hug him back down to earth.

_you were incredible_

He receives the text just as he’s about to type out an angry message, scolding Louis for being the sort of person who’d purposely miss his own boyfriend’s maybe greatest solo-performance ever over a silly fight with nothing to it, even though he knows that isn’t really the case. Louis isn’t the sort who’d do that, not in a million years. Louis _is_ , however, the sort who’d attend the show, and then not come meet Harry backstage afterwards, depending on the amount of anger still left sizzling in his stubborn little body.

 _thank you. where are u ?_ Harry texts back. He’s standing in a dressing room, - not his own, because that’s absolutely stuffed with people that aren’t Louis and that’s just no use right now -counting down the seconds until he’s found again.

 _fuck-ugly suit tho_ , he receives in response.

Harry groans. It takes quite a few deep breaths before he finds it in his kind, selfless heart to type back, _you already knew I was wearing that. And its_ _Gucci_ _. where are you?_

 _sorry, my bad,_ Louis texts, fast followed by; _fuck-ugly Gucci suit tho*_

 _where are you?_ Harry responds, angrily ripping off his blazer, yanking the stupid ascot off and undoing the top few buttons on his shirt, which is clinging to his sweat-drenched back. It’s too hot in here. _baby_ , he types, because he’s too stubborn to say sorry, but he isn’t ignorant to the fact that he _did_ talk to that pretty beer-girl slightly too long yesterday and, yes, maybe he _did_ enjoy the way Louis glared at him from a distance, shooting bitter-green daggers at them both, and yes, maybe he _did_ scream back a bit too loudly when they then got into the inevitable row afterwards. He should’ve just apologised and they’d have been standing here together now, but he didn’t and then everything escalated and Louis said some things too, which is why Harry really can’t bring himself to apologise now. So he just sends _baby_ and hopes it’ll suffice.

Before he receives a response, the door is ripped open.

He expects a flood of people to stream right in, attacking him with beer-slurry speeches on how much they love him despite not knowing, or really caring about him, at all. He’s being an ungrateful brat, he knows, but he just needs the person who loves him the best to come round and tell him he did good before anyone else says another word. He just needs his Louis.

But it’s just a stage-worker. “Oh,” she says, popping her head in, “hey. You were great out there.”

He doesn’t think he’s spoken to her before, but he’s seen her face around. “Thank you so much.”

“Heard some people were looking for you. Something about bubbles in your dressing room.”

“Oh.” It’s probably Nick. “Right.” He’s probably just as fine bathing people in champagne and wrecking Harry’s dressing room whether Harry’s there or not. “Right, thanks.”

“Think you’re going in there, or?”

Harry frowns a little, looking the stranger over, then glances down at his phone, where a new message from Louis’ just ticked in. “No, uhm— no, not right now,” he mutters, then snaps his head up, “oh, and please don’t tell people where I am. I just need, like,” he waves a hand around, “a minute, you know?”

She nods, smiling politely, and closes the door behind her.

 _Saw your girlfriend in the crowd tonight. She’s even hotter without the stench of beer surrounding her,_ is what Louis’ latest text says.

Harry bites down on the insides of his cheeks. _Stop being such a passive-aggressive fucking cunt and come and suck me,_ he sends, which is a Freudian slip, and he quickly adds; _hug me*_

He’s palming himself through the fabric of his suit-pants. His body always reacts a bit like this, after a particularly exciting stage-performance; gets excited all over. It’s something he’s learnt to control over the years, particularly once performing on stage stopped meaning having Louis right by his side once they got off of it, easy to tug into an abandoned storage room or the back of a tinted-windowed SUV. Louis has his own things now, can’t always be there to give a quick suck and snuggle if need be, and neither can Harry for him, but tonight— tonight was one of the off times that he could’ve have been, that he fucking _should’ve_ been.

Tonight was meant to be the night Louis watched him on stage and then supported him behind it, and tomorrow was meant to be the reverse of that, and then, as a surprise, which Harry isn’t even entirely sure he wants to go through with now, the day after tomorrow was meant to be the day they flew off on a private jet to the Seychellestogether, just the two of them and the diamond-ring Harry bought three weeks ago.

 _why dont you ask your girlfriend to suck you_ , is what Louis texts back.

And, well— he supposes he couldn’t have hoped for anything better, what with calling Louis a cunt in his last message, but he finds that he still somehow did. He finds that the response infuriates him enough to text back, _maybe I will if you’re never fucking there for me._

It’s childish and mean and downright untrue. Louis’ always there for him, whenever he possibly can be, but the fact that powers bigger than them both - work-schedules, mostly - often make it so that he can’t be, frustrates Harry something so terribly. Makes him want to do something as stupid and unfair as to blame Louis for how much he fucking hates not seeing him, holding him, being inside of him, every single day.

 _Fuck you,_ Louis texts him back.

 _Where are you?_ Harry texts, guilt seeping through his bones, followed by, _I need you please_ , and then, because he can’t fucking help it, _I need to touch you a bit please sweetheart, im sorry_

What he receives in response to being honest and vulnerable despite Louis’ complete dickishness, is; _I’m just catching up with some people. Will come in ten minutes if you’re not too busy with your girlfriend._

“ _Fuck_ ,” Harry hisses, kicking a paper-bin and slapping the makeup-table he’s sitting on, “fucking _dick_.”

A few knickknacks knock over, an eyeliner pencil even rolls all the way off of the table, but the paper-bin tips right back in place and the people outside this little room continue to run around shouting and laughing, the music of the festival continues to blast through the walls, a thumping blurry mess of bass and poppy vocals.

Harry sighs, bending in on himself, feet on the ground, bum still on the makeup-table.

He drags his fingers through his hair, driving hard up his skull to take the edge off the Louis-induced headache. Sometimes, just sometimes, having had only one person since age sixteen gets to be rather... frustrating. He slides a hand down to squeeze himself again, closing his eyes and thinking of Louis’ soft, wet mouth, how it spat filthy, horrible words at him all of last night, instead of spitting on the head of his blood-red dick before swallowing it down. He had a shot of whiskey before he went on stage and two quick-chugged glasses of champagne just as he got off it, but he’s mostly drunk off the rush of performing.

And when he’s just a little bit drunk, just a little too giddy with it all, he sometimes finds himself just a little less immune to all the eyes that eat him up, all the tongues that lick over lips that would be pressed to the head of his cock if he let them, if he just so much as asked, it’s— god, he misses Louis’ arse. 

Fuck, he hasn’t been up Louis’ arse since last they managed to cram a night in together and even then it wasn’t as good as it could’ve been, he didn’t let Harry lick him all loose and wet, didn’t have the time, and that was fucking _months_ ago, fuck— they could’ve fucked last night. Harry should’ve fucked him last night, that was the unspoken plan anyway, but Harry didn’t. Not for lack of trying, of course, but Louis was being a stubborn little bitch and Harry tried everything to soften him up again, but nothing worked, so they both went to sleep bitchy, bitter and blue-balled last night, and, judging by the way things are going, they will be again tonight.

 _Ten minutes,_ he texts back.

Just as he’s planted himself in the lounge chair in the corner of the room, deciding to stay put here for exactly ten minutes and then go back to his own dressing room if Louis hasn’t arrived nor texted, the door gets opened.

Stiletto-heels stumble in. Harry’s heart sinks. She doesn’t see him at first and he doesn’t really look at her, tries not to look too long at sexy people who aren’t Louis when he’s half-hard in his trousers. He looks back at his phone, thumbing back and forth between random apps while he waits for her to leave.

The door’s automatically slammed itself behind her and she’s fiddling over at the makeup-table, still not realising she isn’t alone in the room. She’s a makeup-artist, he presumes, hoping to catch herself a bit of semi-famous dick now that she’s here. Harry keeps his breathing low, banking on her grabbing her stuff and leaving without ever noticing him at all.

But, of course— “oh my god. Harry Styles?”

He sighs, then lifts his head. And, yeah, he recognises her. He’s noticed her face before; doesn’t think anyone wouldn’t. She’s hot all over, tight little body, just slim enough to be classy, just curved enough to be sexy, but she’s got one of those faces too; she’s what he’d refer to as downright beautiful. She’s the sort of girl he’d go for, if he were ever to do something irreparably, inexcusably idiotic that he’d regret till the day he died; she’s the sort a lesser man might refer to as ‘worth the aftermath’.

But she’s just a fantasy, of course. Nothing’s ever worth the aftermath if the aftermath means losing Louis.

“Yeah,” Harry says, giving her a quick scan up and down, “you are?”

“I’m Savannah.”

“That’s a nice name.”

“Thanks, I’ll tell my parents you said so,” she giggles, “they’ll be thrilled to hear Harry Styles approves of their tastes.”

“Big fans of mine, are they?”

“Oh, massive.”

She throws a smile over her shoulder from where she’s turned her back to him again, leaning over the make-up table to fix up her lipstick in the mirror above it. It’s burgundy, like her tank top, which dips down low at the back, showing off the whole curve of her spine. Her eye shadow's a light shade of shimmery silver, just like her skirt, which hardly covers her round arse as she stays bent over the table.

Harry makes sure to look back to his phone before she turns again.

“I am too, for the record,” she adds, her stiletto-heels clacking a few steps closer. She doesn’t say anything else, but doesn’t move away either, waits stubbornly until he finally looks up at her again. “A massive fan,” she says then, batting long false lashes, “of yours.”

“Thank you,” Harry says, smiling and nodding, “thank you, that’s so nice of you to say.”

He keeps smiling and nodding and she keeps doing the same, not letting him go.

In the end, he cuts his gaze away, back to his phone. “Well, I’m just, uhm…”

“Yeah, course, that’s all right.”

As her heels clack away, he discretely re-adjusts his half-chub, which her presence hasn’t done much to help, if he’s honest. She clacks her way to the door and Harry doesn’t watch her go, instead just scrolling up and down his text-conversation with Louis, embarrassed at both their own behaviours. Louis hasn’t responded to his last text.

Then Savannah clacks closer again. “I’m really sorry to bother you, but could I maybe get a picture? I’m just, like— _such_ a huge fan.”

“Uhm,” he looks up again, eyes inadvertently following the lines of her perfect body, dick jerking in his trousers by default, “uhm, yeah. Sure, of course.”

Her face breaks into a wide smile and she click-clacks over to him, long flowy blonde hair bouncing around her petite frame. She sits down on the armrest beside him, Harry just barely managing to pull his hand off of it before her arse collides. She pulls her phone out, lifting it in selfie-mode and he puts on his best fan-smile.

She gets a few hundred identical selfies in, then stays seated beside him while she goes through them all. She pushes all her hair over one shoulder, baring the expanse of her tan, smooth back. Her shirt droops down even further as she hunches over the phone, lacy black bra the only thing keeping him from seeing the entire side of her breast.

“Mhm,” she moans, more sex-kitten than anything, really, “so annoying. You look incredible in every single one and I just look like dog-shit.”

“Oh, that’s not possible,” Harry blurts.

She giggles. He looks back to his phone.

“S’it all right if I just take, like, a couple more? Just, I never thought I’d ever meet Harry Styles like this, one on one and everything.”

Instead of looking up at her again, he just mutters, “yeah, all right, then. But I’ve got to meet with my girlfriend in a minute, so it can’t take too long.”

“I’ll only be a second, I promise, I’ve just got to get a better angle,” she assures him.

Then she gets off the armrest and drops directly down into his lap. 

“This all right?” She pushes her hair aside, back naked again, so close to his front that he can almost feel her skin, and smiles back at him. Her eyes are a deep, dark brown, circled in smudgy black liner. She looks too fucking good this close, feels too warm and heavy in his lap.

“Yeah, it’s all right,” Harry says, coughing, “but I’ve really got to meet my girlfriend, so let’s get it taken, yeah?”

She nods, knowing smile tugging at the side of her red-painted mouth when she opens the front-facing camera. They take a few hundred more pictures and she ‘readjusts’ herself in his lap a few thousand times, doing nothing at all good for his fattening cock. Or his weakening will-power. She wants him, he knows. He could have her without so much as asking, he could have girls like her every night of the week the same way, but he doesn’t do that. He has Louis, even if Louis _was_ a stubborn little bitch last night.

That doesn’t change the fact that this girl is uncomfortably hot and uncomfortably wriggly on his uncomfortably hard dick still.

“That was about it, wasn’t it?” he asks, clearing his throat.

She chuckles lowly, does a throw of her long locks and pins his gaze down in the frontfacing camera. “If you want it to be.”

His dick jumps right up against her arse, just at the way she licks her lips, slow and sultry. She knows exactly what she’s doing and he does too. It’d be so insanely easy, just to take her right now, like this, just fast. His dick agrees, fully fat in his pants now.

“I, uhm, no,” he croaks anyway. He’s never cheated on Louis. Not once. He may have had beards, mutually beneficial promotional dates and pre-planned ‘accidentally papped’ smooches that Louis knew about beforehand, but he’s never once cheated. That’s not to say he’s never felt tempted, just like he’s sure Louis has, he’s a man and a popular one at that, but just as Louis stays faithful to him, Harry strives to treat him with the same respect. Even when it’s hard. Even when it’s really, _really_ hard.  “I’ve, I, no, I’ve— sorry, I’ve got a girlfriend.”

She bites her lip, dropping the phone down into her lap and clacking her nails on the flicked-off screen. “Why isn’t she here yet? A good girlfriend would be waiting for you backstage. If she really cared.”

“She cares,” Harry snaps, “she just— she’s just a stubborn bitch at times,” he sighs.

Savannah pushes a few stray strands of her long hair aside again, her spine a perfect arch, body a perfect hourglass in his lap. He slumps back in the chair with an exasperated groan, scratching up the armrests.

“You know, I always imagined this,” she says, still not moving off of his dick, “meeting Harry Styles. One-on-one. All glammed up when I did. I always imagined…” she leans back slowly, her back pressing to his front, head lolling back over his shoulder, “the things I’d do to him,” she says, her voice a faint rasp against his ear.

He swallows thickly. “Listen, I—”  

“The things I’d let him do to me,” she whispers, damp lips pressed to his ear as she takes one of his hands, guides it up under the thin fabric of her shirt, “what a nasty girl I’d get, just for him.”

He groans, squeezing her little tit through the padded fabric of her bra. She pushes down on him, arse grinding in circles against his painfully hard bulge.

“Mhm,” she moans, guiding his other hand up the inside of her bare thigh, “your girlfriend doesn’t have to know.”

“No, fuck, I—”

Savannah presses his hand up against the front of her lacy knickers and grinds into it. “If she loved you, she’d be here,” she breathes, grinding into his hand as he presses the heel of it harder against her, so turned on he’s going dizzy from it, “come on, she doesn’t ever have to know, just give in, I can feel you want it too.”

“Oh, fuck,” Harry hisses, throwing his head back as she grinds her perfect arse down on his crotch again.

She chases him, lips sloppy-wet against the side of his throat. He’s had girls offer themselves to him like this before, so many times he’s lost count, he’s turned down supermodels and porn actresses, women so much his type he had to shower at freezing temperature just to survive not giving in.

“Come on,” Savannah says, turning sideways in his lap so her smooth, bare legs swing over the armrest, arse still snug in his lap. Of all the people he’s had offer themselves up to him like this, though, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen one quite as hot as this one.

The back of his neck is burning. “What,” he clears his clogged-up throat, “what would you let me do?”

She fiddles with her nails in her lap, long false lashes casting shadows over her glittery cheeks. “Anything you wanted,” she says, “anything and then I’d leave. Like a whore, if you wanted, you could just use me and then I’d leave, like you paid for it.”

He throws his head back, eyes screwing shut. “God, I think I’ll pay for this.”

“No, I told you, Harry,” she says, leaning in and mouthing at his jaw, “I’m a massive fan, I won’t ask anything in return, I won’t tell anyone. I’m your biggest fan. When I masturbate,” she says, “I always think of you. What do you want me to do? Anything, what do you want?”

She’s got a hand on his crotch now, rubbing fast little circles, her lips on his, breath a mix of strawberry chewing-gum and whiskey.

“Shit,” he hisses, fucking up into her relentless hand, “fuck, okay, suck me off.”  

“Yeah?” she breathes against his lips, “you want a blowjob, big boy?”

“Yeah, fuck, I want your mouth, I want—”

“All right, I’ll give you a blowjob.”

She straddles his lap, shifting back a bit to start undoing his trousers.

He swallows, taking in the whole look of her; her ridiculously small skirt, riding up her smooth-shaven thighs, her tiny top, drooping down one shoulder to reveal half her bra, her dark-red lipstick, smudged like her eyeliner. She looks like a fucking whore, wild blonde hair all over the place, she looks like a wrecked fucking masterpiece.

She looks up at him. “Can’t wait to know what Harry Styles tastes like,” she says, dark brown eyes locked on him.

And— those aren’t the eyes of the man that he loves. Those aren’t the sweet blue eyes that he’s looked into every time he’s pulled back from a kiss, every time he’s pulled out of a loving embrace, every time he’s pushed into the most intimate position two people ever get in together. He loves Louis’ eyes. He loves Louis’ beautiful blue eyes more than any other part of him, even his soft caramel hair and his smooth, honey-coloured skin, the line of his jaw, the curve of his cheek, the head of his cock, even his perfect, perfect arse. He loves Louis’ eyes even more than he fucking adores any of those other things, because through Louis’ eyes, he sees Louis’ soul. He sees Louis’ mind, his heart and all of the things that words just aren’t big enough to convey.

And these dark brown eyes, however lovely they look, however hot the whole package gets him, they aren’t the ones of the only person he ever wants to do this with. 

“Stop,” he says, “stop, stop, I can’t do this.”

She stills, head tilting. “Why?”

“Your eyes, they’re— it just feels wrong.”

“My eyes?”

“Yeah,” he gives a sorry smile, “I just, uhm— I can’t do it with, eh… it feels wrong. Feels like cheating.”

Savannah bites on the side of her mouth, brows a bit scrunched, and then she drops her long lashes down and grinds her hand down again and says, voice low, “well, it _is_ cheating, Harry. But nobody needs to kno—”

“No.” He takes her by both arms, squeezing until she looks him in the eye again, “seriously, I can’t do it. It just feels wrong.”

She sighs, slumping together on top of him.

“Sorry.”

“It’s all right, I suppose I went a bit too far there.”

She drops her chin down to her chest, blonde locks covering her face, hands coming up to her eyes. Harry feels a twinge of guilt because she tried so hard, but he just couldn’t do it. He loves Louis too much, he supposes, even if the idea of a total stranger gets intriguingat times. It’s only a fantasy. He’d never want to actually do it.

“There,” Louis says, lifting his head again, little brown contacts stuck to the pad of either pointer-finger. “Better, big boy?”

Harry smiles. “Much better.”

He’s still got on the lashes, sharp blue eyes still ringed in smudgy black liner, twinkling like he knows them.  

Harry snatches his wig off.

“Hey!” Louis exclaims, but Harry just barks a laugh in his face and tosses it over his shoulder. “Why’d you have to do that? I thought you liked me in a wig?”

“Yeah, but that one looked fake as hell,” Harry laughs, “where on earth did you buy it?”

“In a costume shop. It came with a children’s cinderella costume.”

“The colour contacts too?”

Louis pouts, crossing his arms over his chest. “No, I bought them online weeks ago. We haven’t done this in ages, I thought you’d appreciate it if I went all in, but I guess not.”

“Sorry,” Harry half-laughs, and Louis slaps his hands away when he tries to grab his face and pull him in for a kiss. “Sorry, darling, you looked so fucking hot. You still do. I just— I don’t know, I like still being able to look into your eyes when we do this. I love a nice wig and outfit and name and everything, - Savannah is sexy as hell, by the way, good job - but your eyes… I just need it to still be your eyes.”

Louis sighs. “Okay, then. No colour contacts next time, then.”

“Hey, though,” Harry says, when Louis’ still sitting slumped-together in his lap, arms crossed over his chest, head down-turned. “Hey, sweetheart, don’t look so defeated,” he pets Louis’ cheek, “you’re still the sexiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

Louis rolls his eyes, long lashes whisking with it, and whacks Harry’s arms away twice when Harry tries to touch him. The side of his mouth is quirked up a little, and when they’ve been quiet for a moment, Harry steals himself to thumbing over his mouth, wiping a bit of smudged lipstick from his cupid’s bow.

“Hm,” Louis murmurs, a huffy, coquettish little noise, and Harry chuckles, prodding his thumb between his lips. Louis bites at it a bit, then lets Harry force it into the wet warmth of his mouth.

“Good girl,” Harry says, and Louis looks up at him through his lashes, contoured cheeks hollowing around his thumb, “that’s a good girl,” he hums, sliding his free hand up to one of Louis’ bra-cups. Louis whacks the hand away, defiant and childish, eyes bright and challenging when Harry meets them with a pout. “Lou- _is_.”

Louis grins around his thumb, and Harry tries to grab his tit once more, gets whacked off again, tries once more, gets whacked off again, then tries a fourth fucking time and finally doesn’t get whacked off.

“So fucking difficult,” Harry groans, fighting a little laugh, “liked Savannah much better.”

Louis spits his thumb out. “Savannah’s a fake fucking whore. Don’t even think that’s her real name, to be honest.”

Harry laughs and Louis does too, climbing closer finally. Harry wraps his arms around him, touches up his naked spine, yanks at his hair a bit and then surges down again, settling both hands where they always end up going.

“You’re so fucking sexy in a skirt, Lou,” Harry breathes into Louis’ mouth as he grabs on his arse, pulling him up closer. His hands aren’t even touching the skirt, really, because it’s so tiny it’s crawled up and settled on Louis’ hips. The lace of Louis’ knickers is black, matching his bra, and covers only half of his arse-cheeks, scratchy against Harry’s palm. He digs his fingers inbetween them and Louis arches, muffling a soft noise against his collarbone.

“Very short skirt, though, Lou,” Harry murmurs, hips rolling up against the firm weight of Louis’ arse, all spread out over his lap, “very flimsy little top too. What kind of girls wear an outfit like that? Good girls?”

Louis bites at his shoulder.

“No,” Harry gives him a gentle whack over the arse, “no, good girls don’t wear outfits like these, do they?”

Louis kittenlicks at the side of his throat, such a soft, wet little thing that Harry has to take a moment just to ride out a shudder. “Don’t act all holy,” Louis says, nipping at his earlobe, “you love a good whore.”

“Love _my_ good whore,” Harry agrees, swatting him over the other arse-cheek. Louis moans, grinding forward. His skirts ridden all the way up the middle of his waist now, and his cock-head peeks out at the top of his knickers, wet as it presses against Harry’s stomach, “god, you’re so wet, babe.”

Louis chuckles. “Got so fucking hot just putting all this on. Getting all pretty for you. Been hard for fucking ages.”

“You did a really, really good job at it,” Harry says, almost exasperated at how sexy Louis looks like this, fringe hanging down the side of his face, sharp cheekbones glittering in bronzer, skirt pushed up and lipstick smudged like a proper sloppy slut. “Fuck, you’re such a dirty girl. You’re such a nasty little girl, Lou.”

Louis grins, batting his lashes as he straightens up, riding in playful little shifts over Harry’s clothed cock. He bites his lip, looking down and taking hold of the only thing still holding his top halfway up; the little strap on his left shoulder.

“I don’t know if I should,” he says, soft and slow, “my mum said boys don’t respect a girl who gives it up so easy.”

“Mhm?” Harry pushes at his fingers, just gently, trying to get the strap to slide off, “well, your mum doesn’t know how much you get off on being disrespected a little, does she?” He slides his other hand from Louis’ arse-cheek and in between, fingers prodding at his hole through the lace, “doesn’t know how wet your little cunt gets when I treat you like a whore, does she?”

Louis drops his head to Harry’s shoulder. “Fuck, Harry,” he gasps, “christ, I can’t take it, you’re so fucking good at this.”

“Love you.” Harry kisses his cheek and massages two fingers at his hole, still covered by lace, while Louis gets a hand down and does the same for his bulge, “if I had some lube, I’d fuck your cunt right here, like this.”  

Louis rips the strap of his shirt down and puts Harry’s free hand on his tit. “You can fuck my cunt without,” he hisses, “fuck, Haz, you were so sexy on stage, you can— just, don’t care about lube, just put it anywhere, anywhere you want.”

“Great little tits you’ve got,” Harry purrs against his ear, one handful of tit and one of arse, “great little arse, fits just perfect in my hand,” he gives it another smack, just for good measure, and the squeak Louis gives is more than a little satisfying, “would love to put it in all your holes. Fuck your mouth and then your cunt, then switch to your tight little arsehole,” he says as he thumbs at it over lace, “wouldn’t even need lube cause your cunt would have my dick so wet already, wouldn’t it?”

Louis arches up again, throwing his head back, entire chest exposed, tan and flushed red under a sheen of glitter. He rubs himself through the front of his knickers and Harry just watches him for a second, stuck in an all too familiar state where he’s half doing it for pure aesthetic enjoyment and half doing it because he’s afraid he’ll come the second he touches Louis on top of it all.

Of course, he’s a big boy now and he knows how to hold back, usually. “I’d love to,” he clears his throat, voice gone gruff, then drags a finger down between the cups of Louis’ bra, “love to fuck you between these pert little tits, too. Jizz on your pretty face. Mess up that perfect make-up you did, just for me.”

“I’d let you. Fuck, I’d let you, Haz, I’d let you jizz anywhere you wanted,” Louis moans, and the way he keeps throwing his head back, eyes fluttering closed, cock blurting pre-come, Harry knows he’s about to come.

Harry loops a hand around his wrist and moves it off of himself. “Baby,” he says softly, kissing Louis before he protests, “get off the chair for a second.”

He takes Louis under the armpits anyway, because Louis’ half-slack and lazy, then gets behind him, pushes him back down onto the chair. Louis quickly gets the idea, knees on the chair, hands on top of the backrest, laced-up arse and sharp stiletto-heels sticking out at Harry, head bowed down.

“Stay like that, yeah?” Harry breathes, undoing his trouses enough to pull his cock out, “god, these knickers, Lou. Wanna rip’em off with my teeth and spank you, but I don’t wanna ruin them, you look too fucking sexy.”

Louis looks back at him over his shoulder, fringe matted to his sweaty forehead, eyeliner running like he’s just gotten facefucked hard enough to cry a little. “Yeah?” he rasps, wriggling his arse back, “am I a good girl, then, Hazzer? Did all right for you?”

“ _All right_ ,” Harry snorts, because that’s the understatement of the year. He’d like to keep Louis like this, face down, arse up, and just jizz all over the lace of those knickers, rub it into the fabric and make Louis wear them again, all dirty with dried-up cum. He’d like to yank them down Louis’ thighs, spit on his arsehole and fuck him dry and raw, come up his arse while fingerfucking his mouth and fucking up his lipstick. He’d like to do a lot of things to Louis, all the time, but what he ends up doing is dropping to his knees just behind him and nuzzling into his arse.

“ _Ah_ ,” Louis hisses, and Harry holds him by the fronts of the thighs, licking over the lace between his arsecheeks. He briefly considers tugging them down by the teeth and eating Louis out, but he thinks he’s too far gone to go there at this point, and, judging by the frantic hand Louis’ got down the front of his knickers, bad girl that he is, Louis is too.

Harry bites one arsecheek, just below the edge of lace, and gives the other a smack just to hear Louis screech again, then moves downward.

“Spread your knees apart.”

“Good girls don’t spread that easily, Harry.”

“You’re right,” Harry says, “so spread ’em already.”

“You’re not a very nice boy.”

“And you’re not a very nice girl,” Harry yanks his knees apart by hand-force, then licks his way up the insides of Louis’ warm thighs, tasting sweat and the slight bitterness of aftershave-lotion, because Louis’ been such a good girl about grooming. “You’re a very, very bad girl,” Harry says anyway, because it makes Louis whimper from up where he’s muffled his mouth against his own arm. “Come here in your skimpy little outfit, telling me I can stuff it anywhere I like.”

“Only you, though,” Louis says, and he’s so in character now, too into it to laugh at himself anymore, “only you get to do that, Haz, I’m a good girl everywhere else.”

There’s a whiny tone to Louis’ voice, like he needs the reassurance, like he needs to know Harry agrees with that statement, and Harry does, of course, so he breathes out a hoarse “yeah,” before kissing the spit-slick inside of Louis’ thigh, “yeah, you are, Lou.”

He gets up then, because his cock can’t take it any longer, and curls over Louis’ back.

“You’re such a good girl,” he says, kissing up behind Louis’ ear as he guides his knees back together and eases his cock in-between Louis’ thighs. “You’re my good girl, you’re— _ungh_ ,” he moans as Louis squeezes his thighs together, tightening the grip around Harry’s cock. He trusts harder, faster, one hand on Louis’ hip, the other cupping his tit over the bra, “such a sweet little girl, with your little tits and your pretty face and this, _ah_ , this arse.”

“Mhm?” Louis groans, voice so rough Harry knows he’s seconds off coming.

“Yeah, this fucking arse, Lou.” Harry gives it a slap to underline his words, flesh jiggling under his palm, and Louis whines, starting to come, “this big, round fucking arse,” he squeezes Louis’ tit and hip, thrusts harder as Louis flexes his thigh-muscles again, probably using all the strength he has left in him, “don’t know how the hell you squeezed it down these tiny knickers, but _fuck_ , am I happy you did.”

Louis laughs loudly at that, and somehow, even after everything else, the sound of that is what gets Harry there tonight. He digs his fingers into the flesh of Louis’ hip, muffles a groan in the back of Louis’ shoulder and creams up between his thick, quivering thighs.

They stay like that, doggystyle with jizz running down to Louis’ knees, for a moment.

“All right, stallion,” Louis says eventually, slapping back at Harry’s hip, “good girl’s gotta get cleaned up.”

Harry stands back, scouting the room for something to use. He finds a box of tissues on the makeup-table and brings it back, cleaning up Louis’ thighs and his stomach. There’s a bit of his own come on the knickers that they can’t get off, though, but Louis just pushes the tiny skirt down to cover and doesn’t seem to mind. Harry definitely doesn’t mind.

“Jesus Christ,” Harry sighs, plopping down across from Louis on the floor.

Louis sits with his knees together, feet sideways like a proper lady, and flicks his fringe aside on a loose wristmove. “Prefer Virgin Mary, but yeah, that works too, I suppose.”

“The fuck did you get in here without getting noticed?” Harry asks, just before he realises a horrifying fact, head snapping over the the door, “fuck, we didn’t even lock it!”

“Calm down, you big idiot,” Louis mutters, studying his nails, “paid one of the stage-workers to help me out and keep it quiet. She went round looking for you and when she found you in here, she ran back out and got me. She locked the door from the outside for us.”

Harry’s mouth sits gaping. “I— fuck, I hadn’t even thought about any of this.”

“No, you were too turned on like you always are when you get off stage,” Louis says, waggling his brows, “get off on your own hype, don’t you?”

“Piss off, you get off on getting called a good girl, don’t judge me for my kinks.”

Louis does a showy throw of non-existent long locks. “Honey, I’m not here to judge, I’m just here to look good.”

“And doing a brilliant job at it,” Harry says, because it’s true. He scratches at his hair. “Ehm, but— you said you bought those contacts weeks ago.”

Louis sighs, shrugging a shoulder. “Well, I suppose I… I suppose I just, well… I suppose I _was_ a bit of a stubborn bitch last night. I suppose I was just… I don’t know, a bit jealous cause we never know what one another might get up to, but I blew things way out of proportion and then I ruined our night. I’d been planning to give you Savannah last night for weeks, but I was so stupidly angry that I didn’t. I felt guilty and stupid in the morning. So...” He smiles, shrugging again, “I decided to surprise  you after the show instead.”

“I love you,” Harry grins, “and for what it’s worth, any version of Louis’ a million times hotter than any girl or boy out there. Nobody’s better than you, babe.”

“Not even Savannah and her soulless button-eyes and nasty synthetic wig?”

“Well, her arse _was_ quite something.”

Louis grins, tugging down on his skirt again. “That it was, Haz. That it was.”


End file.
